Whispered Roses
by lenore en noir
Summary: A tale told in shades of rose... A series of coordinating vignettes. Leroux based, but with other influences and ideas throughout.
1. Before the Beginning

**_Whispered Roses_**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, or written material that is mentioned in any of the following stories. Credit goes to Gaston Leroux for the characters, Charles Garnier for the opera house, and various composers, librettists, and authors for any mentioned musical or literary work.

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**_Prologue_**

**This is basically here simply to clarify a few things before the story actually begins. There are so many different versions of PotO floating about that I wanted to make sure that everyone understands the basic concepts underlying _Roses_.**

**First of all: in this story, there is no Raoul. He is a very important character, and a valuable one, but I simply wish to focus exclusively on Erik and Christine; they still face plenty of problems without our dear Viscount. Because I intend to concentrate so much upon the Erik-Christine dynamic, writing Raoul would be, I feel, an intrusion.**

**Secondly: I wish to briefly address my treatment of PotO's protagonists. My Erik is much like Leroux's- perhaps a little less prone to tears and with a slightly more biting wit, but essentially the same. His appearance is entirely book based (but please don't imagine my Erik as looking like Lon Chaney! I love the silent movie version, but my character is very different). And now for my Christine. Christine really is the central character of this story- I plan for most, if not all, chapters to be from Miss Daae's POV. That being said, she is the character that deviates most from the original portrayal. My version of Christine is a tad...saner. She is just as confused, but she handles her issues better than Leroux Christine. I also think that my character is kinder, more understanding, and more intuitive. She's emotionally older, in a nutshell. Her appearance is also different, because I have always been partial to ALW's brunette Christine. Mine still has the blue eyes, however.**

**Thirdly and Lastly: Though the story is Leroux based, it does not follow the book religiously. It incorporates some ALW, some Kay, and a lot of my own ideas about the characters and their world. I also must give credit to No One Mourns the Wicked, for her wonderful story _Two Weeks of Eternity_; it is beautifully written, and several of my ideas about Erik were greatly influenced by her portrayal of the character. There are several other authors that likewise inspired me, and you can find them under my Favorite Authors. ; )**

**And now, may the story begin.

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_Whispered Roses_

A tale whispered in shades of rose,

A fairy tale, dost think?

Recall, from red to gold and black

Not all roses blush pink...

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The little girl breathed a sigh of relief as the heavy wooden door creaked shut underneath her cold fingertips, effectively shutting out the frenetic cacophony of the opera house. Letting the sudden, sweet silence fall over her, she turned wide blue eyes to the room that granted her such reprieve. Dust lay thick over every surface, floating in the air in whirls and eddies around her. She was in the opera's chapel, a small and, apparently, little used room. Now, without the constant movement and sound of the opera company swirling around her, she could hear the faint strains of the violin that she feared would always be playing in her mind.

Christine Daae had come to the opera house because her father was dead. He was as dead as dead could be- buried in the ground, a cross marking his final resting place. She had watched the pallbearers lower his simple coffin into that hole, had paled as she imagined the earth swallowing her only family with its wretched, six foot deep mouth. She would never see him again, never hear him play, never feel his calloused fingers in her smooth ones, never, never, never; because he was dead. Dead.

No matter how many times she tried, she simply could not understand. Her mind knew that he was gone- her heart refused to believe. She felt numb, cold- and guilty, for she could not cry for her own father. Tears would not come- her heart held them in. And she prayed almost as much for her own tears as she did for the return of her father; she felt that anything would be preferable to her solitary, dry-eyed misery.

Christine tilted her head to one side, listening to the song playing through her memory. She could clearly remember her father playing this; the way the muscles in his hands moved, the smell of his cologne as she sat with him, watching him play- the memory was as real to her as the little chapel. She remembered his insistence that she sing with him, remembered lifting her voice to twine with the violin...

Her father had wanted her to become a great singer one day, and she had wanted to fulfill his dreams for her. She could remember, distantly, that she had loved to sing. But now her throat closed up if she tried, and her voice would not escape. She had come to the opera house to be a member of the chorus, a small, insignificant face among dozens onstage. She no longer wanted to be a famous diva- her ambitions were buried with her father. She had displayed just enough of her tattered talent to be admitted into the opera's company, and was now a shadow among hundreds of singers, dancers, and backstage workers.

Christine walked to the single, austere pew that sat in the middle of the tiny room. A candle sat upon a rickety table, covered with a moth-eaten cloth. Her footsteps echoed oddly in the stone chamber, her strangled breaths amplified and distorted. The room had no source of light except for a small, circular window along one wall, but that was so covered in grime that only irregular, cold beams illuminated the room enough that Christine could make her way to the pew and sit on its cracked seat. She listened to the haunting violin's song that her memory played for her, mouthing the words silently. The music seemed to fill the small chamber, swelling and diminishing as it was wrought from the strings by her father's skilled hands. Christine swung her feet up onto the pew- determined to enjoy her few moments of solitude. However, she felt something move under her foot and she gave a little cry that caused her imagined music to stop with a discordant wail. Quickly lifting up her foot, Christine saw a large spider, crushed and dying. The spider gave a final shiver and curled into itself. She stared at the spider for a few seconds, and all of a sudden her heart gave up its struggle- it let loose her tears. They came quickly, her small form shaking with the force and depth of her sobs. She felt as though her very soul were being ripped apart, but she also felt relief as the poisonous sorrow flowed out of her. She cried for her father, she cried for her mother, she cried for herself, and she cried for the spider that she had killed with her own carelessness. She curled into herself, much like the spider, and begged for mercy and forgiveness. She knew that it was irrational to be so very upset over the death of a spider, but she also knew that, like her father, the insect did not deserve to die. Christine cried and cried, afraid, and almost wishing, that she would never stop. She began to beg, through her sobs, for someone to hear her pain, to help her, to hold her. She needed someone to understand, to be there for her in a world that had left her empty and cold and alone. Someone- anyone.

Someone heard.

Someone cared, even if only a little.

Someone whispered, "Do not cry, child" into the dark silence of the chapel.

Christine lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with tears and hope. "Hello?" she whispered. "Are you there?"

Silence.

Tears threatened to drown the hope in her eyes. "Please!" she cried. "Please, speak to me. I'll do anything- please!" She searched the shadows for the source of the voice. After many long moments, she heard a sad sigh. "I am here", the voice said.

"Oh," breathed Christine, wiping her eyes. She was so surprised and happy to have her prayer answered that she gave no more thought to the disembodied quality of the voice. She was, after all, a little girl."Oh! You must be an angel, for you have answered my prayer. Please don't go- I need you, angel." Christine instinctively addressed the ceiling- her angel would most obviously speak from above.

There was another sigh- her angel seemed prone to them. "Child," he began, "I am not an angel. I cannot stay- I would only harm you. I should never have spoken." This last part was whispered with so much bitterness that Christine had to say something. "Angel, I beg of you! I need you- how can you harm me? I want you to stay. Please- I would do anything if only you don't leave!"

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Christine held her breath as another expectant silence hung about the dusty chapel. Finally, in a voice smaller and more uncertain than Christine would have ever expected from her celestial being, he asked, "If I promise to stay, will you do the same?" She laughed, delighted. "Is that all? Of course I will stay! I never wish to leave my angel!"

His response this time was immediate, commanding and sarcastic. "I am not an angel, child. I am a demon of the worst sort. A monster from your darkest dreams. Do you still wish me to stay?"

Christine paused, seriously considering. She didn't _truly_ believe that he was a monster, but he insisted that he wasn't an angel. Why then couldn't she see him? Was he a ghost- or something more sinister? Did it really matter? She wanted a friend- a real friend- more than anything. She _needed_ him, angel or not.

Her mind firmly made up, Christine nodded. "Yes, I still want you to stay. I don't believe that you are a demon and a monster, but if you are not an angel...who are you? Do you have a name?"

His voice was back to that uncertain, halting quality. "My...name?"

"Yes...you do have a name, don't you? Since I cannot call you 'angel'."

"My name is Erik" he whispered.

"Erik" she repeated. "My name is Christine." She paused, and looked to the ceiling again. She knew that he wasn't an angel, but it still felt right. "I..." she dropped her eyes. "Thank you."

"You are welcome, angel."

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	2. To Be Held

**An emphatic thank you to Christine Elestor for her wonderful review! I absolutely adore reviews... **

**This chapter is dedicated to Megan- in honor of our quest for the sacred book, and her excellent wielding of the tape. Also in honor of chlorophytes and romantic clover. I love you, Megan! ; ) **

**(You don't have to claim it if you don't like it, though!) **

Years passed, and despite his steady belief that she would abandon him eventually, Christine only relied upon Erik more and more every day. She grew attuned to his presence; she could feel him in other places besides their little chapel. He often watched rehearsals, and they would discuss the current operas when they met. They talked together, without fail, every day in the little chapel. Everyone knew that little Christine Daae would go pray for her father in the dusty, forgotten corner of the opera house every evening. Christine had no real friends in the opera house, and many of the superstitious company claimed that the old chapel was haunted; for these reasons, the two were never disturbed.

Christine soon realized that Erik was extremely lonely and sad. He was also incredibly intelligent- he knew something about everything that they ever talked about. He had traveled widely, and often regaled her with stories of exotic foreign lands (although he always seemed saddened by these stories, so she eventually stopped asking about his past). Best of all was his voice. Erik could sing like the angel that she had first thought him to be. At first, Christine constantly tried to convince Erik to let her see him, but he always refused- and often, he ended their conversation right there, and she would have to wait till the next day to talk to him. After the first year, Christine had all but forgotten that her Erik even had a corporeal form. She enjoyed his company too much to ever risk it for anything. True, his personality was forceful, and his temper often frightening; but she could always hear the uncertainty and sadness in his voice, and so she stayed.

The first time that Christine sang for Erik, he was quiet for so long that she thought that he might have left. She was dubious when he told her that one day she would have all Paris at her feet, but then he promised to train her. Unable to pass up the opportunity to learn to sing like he did, she agreed. From that day on, their evening meetings were centered around voice lessons. As a result, she spent increasingly long amounts of time in the little chapel.

The room itself had changed much over the years. Christine kept it dusted and clean (but she never swept away spider webs). The rickety old pew had been polished, and she kept a soft pillow and a blanket stored underneath it. The altar had a new cloth over it, and every available surface was covered in candles, pilfered from the prop room. Christine loved candlelight. Her father had told her a story once, about a young maiden who dances forever in the flames of candles. She loved to watch the flame flicker, and imagined that sometimes she could see the faint form of the little dancer. The chapel had become her favorite room in the entire opera house.

And so it went; the relationship between Christine and Erik slowly, tentatively grew. Despite the strangeness of her companion, Christine had no better friend. Later, she would recall that things started to change one day when she was fourteen years old.

She had been drawn to the little cluster of ballerinas- all frothy white tutus and satin ribbons- by the tremulously compelling voice of Little Meg. She stood (if you could call it that- Meg was constantly in motion) in the center of the group, and was animatedly telling a story that made all the other members of the corps de ballet shriek with fear and delight. Christine crept as close as she dared to the unfamiliar group, trying to hear Meg's words.

Her story was, of course, about the Opera Ghost- him they call the Phantom of the Opera. She described him as terrifying, yet compelling. He could lure a unsuspecting ballet rat into his monstrous clutches with his voice and violin; Meg claimed that he played like an angel.

That was the phrase caused Christine to gasp. Meg gave her a glare for interrupting her tale, then ignored her and continued. Christine went through the rest of her rehearsal in a daze.

That evening, she confronted Erik.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Christine?"

She took a deep breath. "Why did you never tell me that you are the opera ghost?"

He was quiet for several moments. Finally, "I wished not to frighten you. I never wanted to frighten you."

She sighed. "Oh, Erik. You do not frighten me. I am just hurt that you never told me."

He did not answer, and Christine eventually left the chapel, blowing out the candles and leaving the lonely chapel in darkness.

For a few days, their conversations were awkward and halted. Erik was even more uncertain than before (except in the voice lessons, of course- there he was always commanding and sure), and Christine deeply regretted having said anything. The strangeness never really passed, and Erik began slowly distancing himself from Christine. Soon, they only met once or twice a week, then once a month. It was the last time that Erik came to her that Christine remembered most vividly. It happened when she was sixteen- a cold, rainy day in April.

Christine ran to the chapel, sobbing. She couldn't remember crying this hard since that day so many years ago, when she had just lost her father and was all alone. She needed to talk to Erik desperately, but he had been coming less and less frequently to the chapel. She still went every evening, because she had grown to love the little room. Very rarely did he speak to her there, but she had taken to bringing along books and musical scores, and eating her dinner in the peaceful solitude that she treasured. But tonight, it was important that she speak to him, the only friend that she had ever had.

She reached the familiar, ancient wooden doors and threw them open with all the strength that she had. She ran in, pulled them shut again, and cried out, "Erik!" He did not answer, but she refused to give up. She sobbed his name over and over until she heard his voice.

"Christine, what is the matter?"

the concern in his tone only made her cry harder. As soon as she could speak, she told him about how she had been on her way to her dormitory room when she had passed a group of other girls from the chorus. They laughed and pointed at her but, knowing that she was not popular among several of the members of the chorus- especially the friends of an ambitious soprano with her eye on prima staus- Christine did not think too heavily upon this. But then she passed another group, looking at her with sadness and pity. This worried her much more than the first group She walked a bit faster, and soon met with another sympathetic group. She broke into a run, desperate to reach her little corner of the dormitory. She burst into the room, and cried out when she saw her part of it.

The thin blanket that had only that morning been stretched neatly across the tiny cot was now flung onto the floor, covered in something that looked like the plaster used for props. Her pillow was torn allowing feathers to light upon every surface.Her drawers were upended, and the little frame that held the only photograph that she had of her father had been smashed. Upon seeing this last horror, Christine had rushed to the mess of mangled wood and broken glass and carefully pulled the photograph out- gladdened to find that it had only been torn a little on the edge. But she was still hurt and confused. She knew that Antoinette- the soprano- and her friends had disliked her, but what had prompted such an act of cruelty? She looked around, and there, underneath a dusting of feathers, was a small note, telling her to prepare for a minor solo role in the opera's new production, _Aida._

By the time she finished relating this story to Erik, she was sobbing again. Erik's anger was palpable in the room. He swore to deal with Antoinette, but, hearing the hostility in his ethereal voice, Christine begged him not to do anything at all to the soprano. He had asked her what, then, he could do, and she responded, "Erik, there is nothing for me that you haven't already done. You have already given me everything that I could want."

But the instant she said it, Christine knew that it was a lie. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she bit her lip.

Erik sighed. "You lie, my angel. What is it? What can I do?"

Christine, out of habit, raised her eyes toward heaven. "I...I just wish..." she shook her head. "You will say no. You will be angry."

"No I won't, Christine. Just tell me, please."

"I...I just want to know that you're really here! I want to...to embrace you, and I want to be comforted. I have no one, Erik. I just want to feel you here with me." she dropped her eyes again. "That's all" she whispered, a single tear sliding down her cheek.

Erik was silent. Finally he said, sounding sadder than she'd ever heard him, " Christine, you know not what you ask. You have never seen me...you...you cannot understand. I cannot inflict myself upon you- it would be wrong...I-I cannot..." he seemed to be almost crying as well.

"Please!" she begged. "Just for a moment. What if-" she paused, then spoke carefully. "What if I promised to keep my eyes shut? What if I wore a blindfold, so that I could not see you even if I wished? Would you come to me then?"

"Christine..."

"Angel, I beg of you! I promise not to see you." She waited, praying for his assent. She hugged herself, desperate for another's kind touch.

"You will promise not to look? No matter how much you may wish to? You will wear a blindfold and...and keep your eyes shut? You won't see?" He sounded almost childlike.

"No, Erik. I will not look- I promise." Her heart pounding with anticipation, Christine pulled the satin sash from around her waist and tied it snugly over her eyes. The sash was black, and she could see nothing. She felt a slight draft, then Erik's voice floated to her from only a few feet away.

"I am here, Christine."

She stepped forward, but she heard a corresponding step away.

"Christine, you should not...you would not want to touch me."

"But Erik, that was the purpose! I want to feel that you are real. I want to" she blushed, "I want to be comforted."

She stepped forward again, and he didn't move, although she heard his sharp intake of breath. Another tentative step, then another...and she stood directly in front of him. Blindness heightened her other senses, and Christine could hear his breathing- erratic and short. She reached out her hand and felt rich, thick fabric. Her hand slid higher, until it reached his shoulder.

"You are very tall" she breathed, allowing her hand to follow his arm, down to his hand. She could feel how thin he was underneath the fabric of his sleeve. His hand was almost skeletal, with unnaturally long fingers. "Why, Erik! You're freezing!" she cried, gripping his fingers in an attempt to impart some of her warmth to him. He wrenched away his hand.

"I...I am always cold to the touch" he said. He sounded ashamed and near tears. Christine carefully reached for his hand again, and he did not pull away, though his whole body shook with slight tremors. She was overjoyed to finally know that he really was real- there had been moments when she believed herself insane, conversing with an imaginary 'Angel'. Wanting the comfort that she had been so long without, she guided him to the pew that she knew was in the middle of the room and, after some blind fumbling, seated him beside her. Carefully, so as not to startle him, she wrapped her hands around his torso and buried her head on his chest; finally dissolving into tears. She barely noticed that he also cried, his tears wetting the top of her head. He never returned her embrace, but neither did he pull away.

And so it was that Christine Daae fell asleep by the side of her angel. The next day, she awoke on the pew, covered in a blanket. The memory of her first contact with Erik was her most treasured for years; after that night, he stopped coming to her entirely. It would be years before they would meet again, this time in the darkness behind a mirror.

She eventually stopped going to the little chapel. The dust fell thickly over it, and her candles became frames for intricate spider webs. The room was forgotten by all but a ghost- who occasionally visited, sighing over the memory of a warm embrace.


	3. Persephone Descends

**Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! I think I responded to all of them, except the anonymous ones. Thank you guys too, though! **

**Alright, this chapter is the first one that deals with events that actually take place in Leroux's novel. (I'm sure that you all figured out that the first two chapters were pre-book). The chapter begins as sort of in the middle of events, but things will be explained in the next story/chapter, and anyone who has read the book will know what's going on fairly quickly anyway.**** In my story, if you recall, Christine and Erik have not spoken for years. She has not heard him for years, butshe never forget her 'angel',and he most assuredly never forgot her. **

**I'm ravenous for reviews, good or bad. Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think!

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_Love comes to us through a mirror _

_In shadow'd darkness, with voice dear...

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The darkness swirled behind her eyes, lit by periodic flashes of color and showers of sparks. Christine idly thanked God for those lights, because she was distantly uncomfortable with the numbing blackness that surrounded her like some dark lake. She even felt herself drifting, as if underwater, up toward a surface that she didn't understand. Somehow, she knew that she did not want to break the invisible barrier, for whatever lay outside of her protected mental cocoon was infinitely worse than existence within its safe boundaries. She fought to remain enveloped in her soft oblivion, but the pull of the surface was stronger than she. As she slipped upward, the sparkling lights behind her eyes disappeared and left her in absolute darkness. Fear clutched at her just as the pounding of her head signaled her return to consciousness. Eager to regain balance, light, and a sense of location, Christine opened her eyes.

It was as if some phantasmal nightmare had seeped into reality. Blackness pressed in on all sides, a solid, cold darkness that seemed to hold all measure of evils, lurking in their obscuring shadows. Christine had never feared the dark as much as she did now- cold, alone, lost in a shadow that she didn't even know how she had fallen into. She began to breathe deeply, warding off the first tendrils of panic that snaked toward her weakened mind.

"There must be a light somewhere" she thought, attempting to push fear away with rationale. She twitched her fingers, glad to find that she still had them- that she was not only a pair of blind eyes. Gingerly, she lifted her arms to push herself toward what felt like up, and as she did so, Christine abruptly became aware of several things simultaneously.

One, that she was laying on something very hard and cold, anda littledamp. She could feel the slight slime of algae under her hand.

Two, she felt something soft, like a rich fabric, on the back of her neck, and she realized that her head was propped upon something. She reached a hand over her curls (_probably covered in grime and tangled beyond salvation_, she thought) to further investigate her strange pillow, and nearly shrieked when her silence- sensitized ears caught the sound of a sharp intake of breath.

Christine scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could, considering her recent bout of unconsciousness, stumbling a bit in her frantic rush to put space between herself and the unknown person. She searched the darkness with unseeing eyes. She could only hear her own breathing now, harsh and ragged. It echoed within the new, tense silence. As the minutes crept by, Christine's eyes began to adjust to her shadowed surroundings. She could vaguely see the outline of some sort of figure, and she held her breath as it came more and more clearly into her view as the minutes wore on. She could soon see that it was not her mysterious companion (by now, Christine began to wonder if she had imagined that quick, sharp breath), but a statue of an angel. This angel only had one wing- she could see the other, fallen into a circular structure at the feet of the once great sculpture. After a few more moments (surely, she must have imagined it), she determined that the circular wall around the statue was a small, stagnant fountain- hence the dampness and the wet grime.

Christine squinted, trying one last time to find the person who had so sharply inhaled. There- on the short wall of what she had already dubbed, in her mind, the Fallen Angel Fountain, was a long, dark shape. She blinked, and took a small step forward. Confusing memories clamored for attention, but she pushed them all away, concentrating on the shadow within the shadows that now was only a few feet before her. There was a small movement, and suddenly two glowing golden points of light glittered through the dark haze. Christine gasped, surprised by eyes that were so inhumanly luminous. At the sound of her voice, the golden lights instantly disappeared, as though the man (for she felt sure that this was a man) had quickly closed his eyes.

"Who- who are you?" Christine whispered, trying without success to control the slight quaver in her voice. He sighed, and again the push of recognition and muddled memories assaulted her brain. Again, she pushed them away, too focused on her current situation to evaluate her thoughts. The man gave a low, musical whistle and, puzzled, Christine stared at his vague outline. But before she could voice her confusion, the vague sound of movement in the distance reached her ears, and soon resolved itself into the clear, comfortingly familiar clopping sound of a horse's hooves on stone paths. Then, gleaming in the darkness, stood a giant white horse. He gave a soft whinny, and she instantly gasped with recognition.

"Cesar!" she cried, carefully moving to his side. She stroked his soft nose, amazed to see the _Profeta_ horse that had been missing for weeks. After a brief reunion with the gentle stallion, she turned again to her shadowy companion. She could still not see his eyes, and it was hard to discern his dark form from the darkness surrounding him. She warily watched as he slowly straightened into a standing position (_He is very tall_, she thought, with another funny pang of memory). He extended his arm, gracefully beckoning toward Cesar. Understanding, Christine urged the horse toward him. Cesar walked to the man willingly enough, and he stroked the horse's nose with a surprising gentleness. Then, without warning his eyes appeared again, piercing through the darkness. He looked directly into her eyes and extended his hand once more. The meaning was clear. Christine debated wildly for a few seconds, but logic told her that she would never be able to find her way back to the opera from a place that she had never seen before- if 'seen' was quite the right word. Quelling her doubts, she took a hesitant step forward. The man's eyes seemed to glow. Two steps. His hand still beckoned her. Three steps. Christine reached out her own hand for his, but his quickly retracted and he shut his remarkable eyes once more. He bowed his head for a moment, then looked at her again as he gestured to the short wall of the Fallen Angel Fountain. After a few seconds of blank confusion, she understood that he wished for her to use the wall to mount Cesar. Still slightly dizzy from her bought of unconsciousness, Christine shakily pulled herself onto the wall, then she inelegantly scrambled into Cesar's saddle. She fisted her hands in his white mane, taking comfort from the familiar, coarse feeling of the strands. The horse began to slowly move, and Christine could dimly make out thedark man, gliding in front of the gleaming white horse.

In this manner, Christine found herself disappearing intotwilit lands unknown, on the back of a missing horse, led by a shadow that she could not truly see. And it was not until she was many minutes into the long, mysterious journey that Christine finally examined her thoughts, and nearly fainted as she realized who her dark escort must be.


	4. The Cup of Mnemosyne

**Finally- the fourth story is here! Hopefully it will clear up any lingering confusion from the last tale. Before it begins, I want to just clarify a couple of things:**

**First, _Roses_ was meant to be a series of disconnected one-shots. However, my personal need for a connected storyline is interfering with my original plans; so the stories are looking more and more like chapters. shrugs This most recent story is proof- it comes directly after and before the last story- they're tied together. (That's why they both have titles derived from Greek mythology).**

**I have never had the pleasure of seeing the opera Faust or touring the Palais Garnier- so if I make any glaring errors in regard to either, please tell me! **

**One last note- if you will all recall, my Christine and Erik have not been carrying on with lessons for several years. So the events that are described later in this chapter differ from the events recounted in the novel in that very important respect.**

**Please, I beg you, if you have a question, ask! Those readers who have already asked me something (thank you, by the way!) can affirm that I love to talk about my story. ;)**

**Enough author blathering! After much ado, I give you "The Cup of Mnemosyne".

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…_it was not until she was many minutes into the long, mysterious journey that Christine finally examined her thoughts, and nearly fainted as she realized who her dark escort must be…

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Christine felt as though she was dreaming. The only thing that seemed even remotely real about this strange journey was the comforting texture of Cesar's mane threaded through her fingers, and his regular movements beneath her. Aside from these aspects of reality, the trip had every similarity to that of Persephone's fabled descent to the dark underworld of Hades. Her mind, still fogged and sluggish after her recent fainting spell, nonsensically focused on the thought of that myth- for countless moments in the long, confusing journey, Christine searched for Greek parallels for every object that she could discern in the darkness.

The flickering torch on the wall became the one that Demeter had held, searching for her stolen daughter. Christine imagined the music of Orpheus and the silvered ghost of his love Euridice echoing through the abandoned halls. The more time that she spent in this world, the more convinced she became that she was in Hades itself.

Immersed in these thoughts, she was startled when Cesar came to a sudden halt. Her fist tightened in his hair, and she looked with distantly questioning eyes for her escort. She watched him slowly approach her and stop at her side. He looked up, straight into her eyes, his molten, fiery gaze instantly reminding her weary mind of yet another god from her favorite myths; he who controlled fire. Without thinking, she murmured, "Hephaestus…".

The result was almost instantaneous. Her Hephaestus flinched and shut his eyes yet again. His shoulders hunched, and he seemed to draw into himself. Confused and embarrassed, Christine lowered her eyes. She didn't know what to say, how to apologize for an offense that she did not understand. She nervously wound her hands even deeper into Cesar's mane, cursing her foolish tongue and wishing that she had kept silent.

After a moment, her companion seemed to win the battle against whatever hurt that she had inflicted, and he looked at her once more. This time it was she who flinched, for she could easily read the pain glistening in his eyes. She opened her mouth to attempt to explain her comment, but before she could speak he beckoned for her to dismount. Christine snapped her jaw shut, fear creeping back into her thoughts. She had felt safe while riding on Cesar- she had no desire to leave him for the darkness and a mysterious man. She hesitated, wild doubts and warnings swirling in her head. The man sighed again, pulling at the recesses of her memory, and Christine allowed logic to overcome fear. She felt exhausted- her limbs were heavy, her mind sluggish. She could barely stand. There was no way that she would be able to find her way out of this labyrinthine underworld alone. This man was silent and mysterious, but he had made no attempt to hurt her…that she could immediately recall. How _had _she ended up here? Had he abducted…? She shook her head. It was too difficult to attempt to remember. She echoed his sigh with one of her own, and resigned herself to fate. She shakily lowered herself off of Cesar, feeling a cold draft brush her back, offering a sort of gentle support. Christine turned slowly and raised her eyes to his golden ones, waiting for his direction. He gracefully unfurled long, dark fingers, and beckoned for her to follow him as he moved forward. Christine nodded her understanding and, with one last glance at the gleaming shape of Cesar, she allowed herself to be led deeper into Hades.

He brought her, fittingly enough, to a small boat. It was delicate in construction, with beautifully wrought ornamentation along the sides and front. Christine climbed into the vessel, sinking down to a small bench and distantly watching the figure begin to pole them out onto the water. She leaned over the side, one hand curling around the metal curlicues there, and looked into the black waters. She thought of the river Styx, and of the boatman Charon. Gazing into the waters, a single lock of her disheveled hair trailing along its gloomy surface, she thought of the river Lethe- the river whose waters made all who drank of them forget their earthly existences. Now, with the prospect of a long voyage (how distant were the shores of death?), she focused on remembrance. She wanted to at least remember everything before she was forced to forget- a drink from Mnemosyne, as it were, to counteract the effects of Lethe. Christine furrowed her brow, trying to remember what had happened before she awoke in the underworld. She had been on stage…

* * *

_Christine sang out the delicate part, her first solo in almost a year. True, she was only a minor character- and it was a 'trouser role'- but she was lost in the joy of being onstage and singing. She felt the electric energy and perfect bliss even when she was only in the chorus, but playing a real role, with an individual personality and her own songs, magnified the experience. Plus, Faust was one of her very favorite operas- she loved the story's powerful ending and message of redemption. _

_This evening, however, had been going quite strangely; the house had been filled with whispers before the show started- more than was usual. La Carlotta, the opera's resident Prima Donna, had been shooting Christine scathing looks all evening. Christine had no idea what she had done to so enrage the volatile singer, but rumour had it that Carlotta feared that her part was to be stolen by the young soprano. It was true that Christine did know the entire part of Marguerite as well, if not better, than her own role of Siebel, but this was simply because of her longtime interest in the opera. She was required to be at every rehearsal that Carlotta was, so she had easily learned the blocking of Carlotta's character. But these reasons alone should not have angered the diva- had not been upsetting her for weeks. Christine was utterly confused as to Carlotta's behaviour. The audience, however, seemed to enjoy their evening's Marguerite- Carlotta was given a full round of applause upon her entry onto the stage at the close of Act One. _

_Christine closed her eyes, pushing aside all worries as she allowed the music to flow through her. She caressed the petals of the bouquet in her hands, singing Siebel's sweet request to the blooms for aid in winning Marguerite's love. She felt the familiar swell of joy, peace, and even pride as she sang. There was only the music, there had only ever been the music._

_The strange behaviour of the audience aside, everything seemed to be going well until Carlotta had worked her progressively flamboyant way through the garden scene. As she was singing the serenade duet with her Faust, however, Carlotta suddenly let out a sound that brought the entire opera to a screeching halt. _

_There was no other word for it- Carlotta, Prima Donna and, if the critics were to be believed, the 'lady with gilded vocal cords', croaked._

_The entire audience released a collective gasp. Monsieur Fonta, playing Faust, was frozen with an expression that was almost comical- his heavily made-up eyebrows raised, his jaw dropped. Carlotta herself was frowning slightly, as though she could not believe that the horrid sound had come from her own throat. Determinedly shaking her bejeweled head, the diva began the phrase yet again, only to croak several more times. Whispers had broken out over the audience, and Carlotta looked close to tears. Her final croak was drowned out, however, by a sound the instantly brought silence to the inhabitants of the opera house. _

_It was a low, groaning sound; it filled the entire theatre, ominously echoing through the now hushed house. All eyes searched for the source of the sound. It came again- a groaning, followed this time by a sharp snap and a wild tinkling, as if of-_

_Christine hovering just offstage, fearfully raised her eyes to the opera's magnificent chandelier, just in time to see it swinging wildly. With one last, earsplitting snap, the massive structure snapped entirely free of its counterweights and, following the trajectory that its wild pendulumic swinging had set, the chandelier went crashing straight into the screaming audience._

_It was utter chaos. In the mad dash to escape and the tumultuous aftermath of the crash, many were injured. Only one person died- a woman who had come to the opera for the very first time that night, and who had been hired by the new managers to replace one of the box keepers that had been recently fired. The stagehands were immediately set to the task of removing the hulking wreck of the once magnificent chandelier, and the members of the company were sent home or to their rooms with strict instructions to rest. Christine had walked back to her dressing room, remembering the screams of the audience and the pale, terrified faces of the managers as they met with their employees. _

_Sighing, she shut her door. Because she was awarded occasional roles apart from the chorus, she had been given her own dressing room and a small bedroom, and never had she been more grateful. She lit a few of the many candles that crowded every surface in the room, then changed out of her costume. She emerged in a soft white dressing gown, and set to the task of removing her stage makeup and combing out her tangled hair. But she had not made much progress in either of these endeavors before she lapsed into daydreams, sitting in the flickering light and staring into space- thinking of the evening's events. Carlotta had left in a flurry of Spanish curses and tears. The chandelier was destroyed. A woman had died. Christine shook her head, still in shock. It had all happened so quickly! She remembered the nightmare vision of the massive chandelier tumbling from Heaven to be shattered on Earth…and she thought, for the first time in months, of her angel. He had been so unsure, so afraid. In that little chapel where they had spent countless hours together, he had always been tentative in all but their vocal lessons. And in that last embrace…_

_Christine wrapped her arms around herself, remembering how he had cried, but had not returned her touch. She opened her eyes, and stared into her reflection. Her dressing room, for some reason, included an massive, ornate mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling. In the mirror, her eyes glistened with remembered tears. _

_"Oh, angel…" she whispered. "Erik…whatever has happened to you?" In a daze, she rose and approached the mirror, as if within the depths of her own eyes she would find the answer. She raised one hand to the cool glass, heating it with her fingertips. She pushed, and it seemed almost as if she could somehow reach the other side. Violin music gently wrapped around her, and Christine's eyelids fluttered closed- dreams of her father and her angel swirling around her mind. Her fingers slid through the glass to the cold world behind…to darkness and glowing eyes…

* * *

_

Christine was brought out of her memories by the soft splash of something in the distance. She blinked, readjusting to her surroundings. It was very dark; the only light came from a small candle housed within a lantern at the prow of the small vessel. It did little good, except to glow upon the black water beneath her and dimly reflect the light from her captor's golden eyes. She shakily looked into these, as they were fixed upon her. In their depths, she saw fear and a deep sadness…a longing.

It was then that she knew. The violin…the hidden world behind the walls…the pain and sadness in his eyes.

It was Erik- he had returned.


	5. Interlude Behind a Mirror

-1**A/N: I am so sorry for the long delay! I haven't had internet access for weeks- so although the chapter was finished, I couldn't post it. It is heavenly to be back! This chapter is a little bit different. It actually came about because I woke up one morning with a fierce desire to write something from Erik's POV. I intended to just get it out of my system and then delete it, but I ended up liking it so much that...well, here it is. ; )  
Please- tell me if you like the POV change! If you guys like it, I might be writing a chapter in Erik's words every once in a while. (By the way, this chapter is in first person, unlike my Christine chapters. If I write more of these, all Erik chapters will be first person. All Christine ones will remain in third person.) Like it or loathe it, tell me! ; )**

* * *

Darkness seemed not to touch her.

That was my first thought upon seeing her again. Of course, I had watched her over the years, watched from afar like the angel she had called me. Every day, I yearned to reach out a hand…to touch her, to have her touch me as she had that day, that blessed day that she had laid her perfect head upon my hideous breast- and she had not died. But she does not deserve me, throwing a dark shadow over her bright young life. It had been the right thing to do, to leave her. It was the only way.

But inside, every day, I ached for her. Her angelic voice and compassionate eyes, those delicate fingers that had touched a beast. I watched her as she grew, becoming the beautiful woman that had always lingered right behind her eyes. And I mourned the loss of her, dreamed of her as I played my music. Sometimes, I even imagined what it would be like if she could learn to love me, just a little…but not often, because I had long ago learned to uselessness of wishing for that which cannot be.

Though I may have removed myself from Christine's heavenly presence, I had by no means removed my influence over her career. The new managers had proven themselves to be much more difficult than their predecessors, and La Carlotta held a great sway over both of them. Christine was only given small roles, and even that only after much threatening on the part of the Opera Ghost. I had long ago secured her a room of her own, far away from the jealous choristers that would harm her for her talent and beauty. O.G. had insisted that she be given the room with the giant mirror. Through this window, I watched her, and it was through this, fittingly, that she returned to me.

I had insisted that Christine play Marguerite in that night's _Faust_. Several notes had been sent to both Carlotta and the managers, but both had defied my wishes. Carlotta had taken the role, (butchering it with her inane gesticulating and brazen singing), and the managers had smugly seated themselves in my box. Furthermore, they had fired my box-keeper (the invaluable Madame Jules) and intended to replace her with some foolish twat of a woman who had never seen an opera in her life. So, I did only what was necessary. Carlotta was made to croak, the managers were terrified (hopefully into obedience) by my voice and the falling chandelier, and that blasted woman was killed. Losing the chandelier was lamentable, and its fall might have frightened my Christine- but it was necessary.

All had been going smoothly. I followed Christine to her dressing room after making sure that my manager's were properly repentant. When I arrived behind the mirror, I had to catch my breath at the sight that shone through it.

My angel was sitting on the chair of her vanity, but she was turned into the room, staring at nothing. The dreamy expression on her face was accentuated by the candles that she was so fond of- there was some story about a dancer in the flames that Christine loved. I watched her perfect face, wishing that it was mine to see. I knew it was wrong to look at her so, I knew that I did not deserve her beauty…but I could not leave. Suddenly, her brow furrowed- it seemed her thoughts had taken a different turn. She looked down at her hands, and they curled themselves into her robe. She sighed, and I wanted nothing more than to run to her, beg her to tell me what was wrong. I settled, however, for reaching out one hand and placing it on the mirror. Almost as if she had seen, her eyes suddenly rose to her reflection in the mirror. Her arms were wrapped around herself now, and she shivered. I watched in awe as she unknowingly approached me, each step closer causing my heart to beat faster. She was staring into what I assumed were her own reflected eyes. I stepped back, afraid that she had somehow sensed my presence. Then- oh wonder of wonders!- she reached out to me. Her small hand touched the mirror, as though she wished to come with me. I stretched out my own hand (if such claws can be called hands) and met her own, with only the mirror between us. It was with that 'touch' that I made up my mind.

I admit that it was unlikely. I readily acknowledge that my thinking was perhaps less than lucid. But in that moment, I became convinced that she _wanted _to come with me, to the darkness behind the mirror. That she was, in fact, begging me to take her.

I can deny her nothing.

It was laughably simple, really. Christine had always been affected most strongly by violin music, presumably due to her memories of her father. My violin was with me, tucked in the small case that I brought to every performance. I quickly pulled out the instrument, and began playing a song that I thought most fitting: _The Resurrection of Lazarus_; like Lazarus, I too was to be resurrected, when Christine was with me again. Unlike Lazarus, however, I would not be restored to human appearance- I would remain dead throughout my resurrection. The dark irony amused me even as it hurt.

I never thought that Christine would recognize the song, so I was surprised when her eyelids so readily fluttered closed, allowing me to create for her the illusion of stepping through a mirror.

I think (I pray) that it was the cold that shocked her. She gasped and opened her eyes, blinking several times in the darkness. The violin had been laid aside and the mirror closed; there was only Christine and I, closer than we had been in over two years. I shook, overwhelmed with her nearness. She could not see me- it was far too dark- but my eyes are inhumanly luminescent. She met them, her own eyes focusing, then widening, then finally blurring with a strange distance. She began to fall, but I caught her. Frantically, I checked for a breath, holding my wretched hand only an inch away from her perfect mouth. I almost cried with relief when I felt her soft breath on my fingers- she had not died! Carefully, and guiltily, I picked her up and carried her to the fountain- a dilapidated structure whose purpose I cannot begin to imagine. I sat upon the low ledge, and rested Christine's head on my unworthy lap. I wet my hand and carefully let the droplets of water fall onto her forehead, hoping that it would be enough to wake her. She began to stir, and I held perfectly still. Every nerve screamed at me to get away, to move to a more respectable location… but I didn't want to jolt her or frighten her, so I stayed. She came to very slowly, with small, delicate movements. I was frozen beneath her- a statue until she reached one hand back and brushed my leg with her fingertips. I froze and harshly inhaled with the shock of her awake hands upon my person, and she jumped up (a bit woozily, it is true), with a barely contained shriek, and staggered into the darkness which must have been, to her, infinite. I kept my head down, gathering my far-flown courage. When I finally looked at her, however, she gasped again, and I quickly shut my eyes. The poor child must have thought that some great monster had abducted her- but then, she would not have been far off from the truth. I whistled for Cesar, and prayed fervently that the sight of the familiar horse would calm my Christine.

She seemed thrilled when Cesar, glowing white, emerged from the gloom of the opera underworld. As I watched her tenderly stroke that lucky beast's soft nose from beneath carefully lowered lids, the appropriateness of what I was seeing hit me like, if you will pardon the pun, like a falling chandelier. Cesar had come to her rescue, the shining white steed of fairytales, to rescue her from the darkness and the evil ogre who had captured the fair and lovely maiden. All that the scene was missing was a damned white knight to sweep Christine romantically off of her tiny feet. I shut my eyes again.

Any self-delusion that I had been stoking vanished at that instant. I knew that Christine had not, by any stretch of the imagination, asked to be dragged down into the dark and the cold, with only myself as comfort and protection. She belonged up there, amongst the warmth and the beauty of the opera house; not here. Never here. I was overcome with potent self-loathing, guilt, and fear. I knew that I should do what her eyes begged of me- set her free, send her home. But I could not. She had come so far! I knew that it was wrong, but I simply had not the strength to let her go now, when she was so close. If she never saw beneath the mask….if all she knew was my voice and my love for her, she wouldn't be too frightened, would she?

I knew one thing already- I could not touch her. If I touched her, I would lose all thought, and break into pieces. All plans would be lost then. So I helped her mount Cesar without touching her, even a little. My angel was obviously still a bit disoriented, and she sat in perfect silence as I led Cesar through the labyrinthine tunnels of my home.

The trip was a lengthy one; I had time to still my racing heart and gather my scattered thoughts. She knew nothing. The worst that she could possibly have thought was that my eyes were unusual, perhaps even disturbing, but not terrifying. Or grotesque. Or sickening. She could not know of _that_.

Or so I thought.

Her first word to me, when I had calmed myself sufficiently to look at her again and we had reached Lake Averne, was "Hephaestus".

Hephaestus. The pain of that one word nearly brought me to tears. She had dubbed me the god of the forge- the only member of the Greek pantheon who lacked beauty. The Ugly god, whom the others could barely stand to look at. He was disfigured- lame in one leg. Hephaestus sequestered himself away in the bowels of the earth, working in his hellish world of fire.

Why? She had not seen beneath the mask! How could she know? She could make the connection between my home and Hell easily enough I suppose, but then at least she could have granted me the beauty of the devil! Already in her mind, blind though she was, I was ugly.

* * *

**A/N: Erik isn't thinking about it, but in Greek mythology Hephaestus, the ugliest god, marries Aphrodite, the goddess of Beauty. Just thought that you all would like that tidbit! ; )**


	6. The Garden of Truth and Lies

**Author's Note: I'm still alive! Just barely, but I'm here. ;) After so long between updates, I'm sure that most of you just want me to get on with the story. However, there are several things that have….changed. Evolved, really.  
****One thing is that I originally planned this story to be about ten chapters long- detailing from Christine's abduction to her subsequent release about two weeks later. However, the ten chapter idea has been completely abandoned, and the ending place for 'Roses' is also in question. Don't give up on this story! Hopefully, everything will be sorted out soon. ;)  
****By the way, if I continue the story past where I had planned to end it, odds are that Raoul will be present after all…I know that some of you will probably hate me for that, (That is, assuming I still have any readers after the unforgivably long hiatus!), but don't despair. He will never be a major character in this story, though his presence may have long reaching consequences. ;) And now, after ages of silence, I give you the latest installment of Roses (in every sense of the word!).**

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_Can ever a shadow be trusted?  
For who knows what in it may dwell-  
A demon with twisted visage,  
Or an angel trapped in Hell?_

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After Christine's epiphany on her river Lethe (this paradox amused her, even in such an unprecedented situation), the rest of the shadowed journey was spent in a tide of tangled emotions: a sick queasiness shared space with an overpowering nervousness, a spark of hope and joy, a touch of horror and a positive flood of macabre curiosity.

It was Erik, she was sure of it. Where had he been all of these years? What made him finally break his long silence? Where was he taking her? Why was he taking her?

Christine was starting to realize that she knew next to nothing about the man who had been her angel for so long. He knew all of her secrets, hopes and dreams. Her life was an open book for him, but she didn't even know his last name. In more than ten years of friendship, her first glimpse of him was now- in the opera's strange underworld. She remembered, now that the fog had cleared a bit from her tired mind, hearing mention once or twice of the dark, underground lake that the Palais Garnier towered above- but she had never imagined that there was a whole world concealed in the shadows below her home! It was a bit like the stage, she mused. The audience rarely gives thought to the chaotic realm behind the curtain; they rarely think of the souls that orchestrate everything that they see from behind, above, and around the lit stage. In the same manner, the Opera Ghost was the driving force behind the management of the opera- sending notes and occupying Box Five without ever allowing his audience to see beyond his own stage.

Christine was so lost in her contemplation that she very nearly screamed when the bottom of the quaint little vessel scraped against land. Shaking slightly and already suffering the beginning of what promised to be a punishing headache, she turned nervous eyes to her captor/angel/friend. Erik had turned his attention to securing the little boat, and Christine had no idea what he wanted her to do. So she sat there, watching his graceful movements and twisting the fabric of her dressing gown between her fingers.

After what seemed an eternity, he finally focused his lamp-like gaze back upon Christine. As he had done before, he unfurled his fingers in a clear beckoning. She cautiously stood, trying not to rock the boat or lose her balance. She stepped toward the embankment, putting one slippered foot over the side of the craft. She stumbled a bit when lifting the other foot, and Erik was immediately at her side, his hand outstretched to support her elbow. But at the the last minute, he drew it back, ducking his head and blinking at the ground. Christine steadied herself, watching him warily. Without looking at her, he motioned for her to follow him, as he started to slowly delve deeper into the darkness. She took a deep breath and hurried after him, before she lost sight of his dark silhouette.

The next few minutes happened so quickly that Christine was left with only the vague, dreamy conclusion that Erik was some sort of magician. One minute, she was deep within the bowels of the opera, picking her way up some invisible path, trying to keep pace with her estranged angel while still favoring her aching head; the next minute, she was in a perfectly normal Parisian parlor. She seemed to have just appeared there- she could remember no door or entrance of any sort. A fireplace of fine, dark wood and polished stone dominated one wall, several finely embroidered chairs sat strategically around a small coffee table- angled as though they had just been vacated by some merry party. But these details barely registered, entranced as she was by the roses. Crimson petals dusted nearly every surface; some withered and nearly black with age, some soft and fresh. It was like an indoor garden, and despite the odd circumstances, Christine couldn't help but find it all terribly beautiful. She trailed her fingertips across the nearest bloom, breathing the delicate scent that filled the air. It was a unique smell; the sweet perfume of the roses mingling with the musty, decaying smell of the underworld. Christine shivered. There was tragedy in that smell, that struggle of fragrances. When Erik materialized in front of her (where had he disappeared to so quickly?), Christine attempted to shake away her irrational thoughts. A single oil lamp dimly lit the scene, aided only by a few well used candles. Dim though the lighting was, it was a drastic change from the utter blackness of the labyrinthine underworld. And so, as he stood there, she finally gazed at Erik for the first time.

He was so very thin, he truly looked like a skeleton. The effect was only enhanced by his height and clothing; he wore unrelieved black from head to foot, including a sweeping ebony evening cape. Even his thick hair was black.

The most unusual part of his appearance was the mask (black, of course) that covered his entire face, from hairline to chin. Only his glowing eyes were exposed, and Christine noticed that their odd luminescence was significantly dimmed in the more substantial light.

His hands, which had shone palely in the darkness of the underworld, were now covered in black gloves that failed to hide his unnaturally long fingers. As she stared, she saw his hands begin to shake, twining around each other in obvious nervousness.

She blinked, and raised her eyes back to his. His gaze was boring into her own, and Christine felt that she would never fail to be surprised at the intensity of his eyes- even dimmed as they were now- should she see them every day.

He cleared his throat, and finally spoke to her. "Do not be afraid, Christine. You are in no danger" he whispered.

Christine sighed, her eyes nearly sliding shut. Oh, how she had missed his voice! That beautiful, unearthly voice that resonated through the very strings of her soul. Lost in a pleasure long denied, it took her a few moments to register the actual words that he had spoken. When she did, however, she felt the first tinges of anger.

"Erik!" she said, though the word came out more like an accusation. He shut his eyes, which only fueled her anger…and the sorrow that lay just beneath its surface. She studied him, the emotions fighting for dominance within her small body. With his eyes shut and that mask, she could not even begin to guess at his own feelings. Her fists clenched as a surge of anger overwhelmed the old, weary sadness. Even now, he hid from her! Christine lunged forward, intent on removing the mask and finally being face to face with Erik.

He moved so quickly that she stopped and stared. He was still backing away from her in sharp, jerky movements, his eyes wide. Tentatively, she lowered her outstretched hands. He continued to stare at her, looking positively terrified.

Christine never knew exactly what brought it on. Perhaps it was the stress of the evenings events (the chandelier falling, Carlotta croaking…), or her own sudden and frightening journey under the opera. It could have been the utter shock of meeting Erik again, or it could have simply been the residual effects from her fainting spell. Whatever the case, Erik's behavior was the final straw- Christine's eyes filled with tears and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

She had imagined what it would be like if he ever returned. She would be beautiful and successful, and would thank him graciously for his role in her life. He would regret every moment spent away from her, and would beg her forgiveness. Then he would allow her to finally look upon him, and they would resume their easy friendship, all troubles forgotten.

But this man standing before her was so different from her childhood friend! He was distant and cold, and he seemed to be either utterly terrified or repulsed by her. She could feel his desire for her to stay away; it was almost tangible in the air between them.

She collapsed into one of the chairs, curling into herself and vainly attempting to stop tears that she knew were perfectly irrational. As she cried, she felt a slight breeze at her feet, and looked up to see Erik kneeling at her feet. His hands kept making odd, fluttering little movements, as though he wanted to reach for her, but could not bring himself to. She stared at him, his figure swimming before her watery vision. Finally, he lowered his head and touched the hem of her dressing gown to the lips of his mask.

The gesture was so reverent, so unexpected that it slowed the shaking sobs that had been tormenting Christine.

But it was his voice, his incredible voice, that halted her tears. It came from nowhere and everywhere- it floated in the air and pulsed with her heartbeat, filling her insides and surrounding her outsides; wrapping her in a gilded cocoon of sound. She was frozen, too spellbound to even wipe the salty tracks of tears from her cheeks. When he raised his head and his golden eyes locked with her own, Christine knew she was drowning. She couldn't breathe or think; there was just the song, weaving her a wings and carrying her away into the night.

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**I apologize for the piecey texture of this chapter- it was written a bit here and a bit there. And again, I am sincerely sorry for the long wait! Thank you to those of you who expressed a continued interest, despite all of that. ;)**


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